‘Come.’ ‘Morning, sir,’ Bryant said. ‘I’m glad you didn’t preface that with, “good”, Bryant.’ Bryant sighed inaudibly. This was going to be like his last trip to the base dentist. Long, painful and bloody. The Wingco always reminded him of a vulture – bald, hook-beaked, hunched and nasty. The man had a fierce and richly deserved reputation for intolerance of stuff-ups. The last two weeks had been full of them. ‘Tell me about our latest casualty . . .’ Rogers consulted a file on his desk. ‘What’s his name . . . ah, yes, Smythe. What’s happening about catching the bushmen who killed him?’ ‘It’s in the hands of the police in Bechuanaland. They’re sending out patrols to the known tribal areas.’ ‘They haven’t a chance in hell of catching those bloody bushmen,’ Rogers pronounced. ‘We put up two flights of three aircraft yesterday to search the area where Smythe was found, but there was no sign of the downed kite.
